By: Anna Knowles

I thought I could wash you away,
when I twisted the sink’s knob,
and the faucet began sobbing into a porcelain bowl;
so I plunged my hands under the water and
scrubbed until my skin was rash-red and sore.

My palms are stained with maroon
and the guilty shade of crimson in your name.
The tips of my fingers are burned,
tender flesh seared and scorched,
by the glare of your half-hearted smile.

Sometimes I still feel you
beneath my nails or
in the spaces between my knuckles,
and I want to scrape you clean off of me.